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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222785">The Bloom Is On The Rye</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/pseuds/Fericita'>Fericita</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mercy Street (TV), Oregon Trail (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cholera, Emma is grieving, Emma only has one dress, F/M, Female Friendship, Forced Marriage, Henry needs to catch up, Henry with his sleeves rolled up, Medicinal whiskey, There Was Only One Bedroll, but horny about it, marriage of convience, there was only one wagon, tragic river crossings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:16:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222785</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/pseuds/Fericita</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry was a man and none of his gifts were trifles, starting with the firm arm around her waist saving her from certain death and the blanket around her shoulders to keep out the cold now.  The ring on her finger that he had probably been saving for a woman he loved and admired rather than one he had to take care of like a tiresome beast of burden, even though he was too nice to say so.</p><p>Middlemarch first wrote In Having New Eyes for Mercy Street Advent.  When I freaked out about how much I loved it she encouraged me to write more, even sending me ideas and brainstorming about various directions the story could take.  So here it is, a continuation of her story, or an AU if she ends up taking hers further.  Because I want every version of Emma and Henry forced to get married on The Oregon Trail! Thanks for letting me play around with your idea and being so generous with ideas and encouragement.  </p><p>TheSpasticFantastic continues to make everything I write better, from brainstorming to beta-ing to being an enthusiastic reader.  Thank you.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Emma Green/Henry Hopkins, Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Mercy Street Crossover Advent Silver and AU</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28069476">in having new eyes</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch">middlemarch</a>.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>At night Henry read aloud from the Book of Psalms.  Their first evening together he had cleared his throat awkwardly and asked if she would like to hear.  Emma knew it was his way of telling her he didn’t expect a wedding night so she said yes, an easier yes than any of the others she had given that day.  </span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Henry’s voice was measured, like he was considering every word as he spoke it, and soothing, like he wanted the words to comfort her in the way he would not with his touch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words reached her, more than they ever had inside the four walls of a church or though the short verses she embroidered on pillows.  Now she thought David’s words could be her own. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Give ear to my words, oh Lord, and consider my groaning.  Let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy, and spread your protection over them. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sometimes the psalms were angry and sometimes joyous and sometimes despairing, but always wanting to find hope.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Emma was all of those things too. The expanse of land was breathtaking in its beauty and she could hardly deny that the Creator God who made it was powerful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the land was also terrifying and unfair, and she sometimes wondered if God was too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she said as Henry put a blanket around her shoulders.  He didn’t say anything in return but he did sit next to her, their sides touching just barely, their feet hanging over the side of the wagon.  The campfire was several feet away and the light from the stars and moon was bright enough that she could probably see his face if she dared turn and look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“At home we had servants.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” said Henry, moving slightly so that their sides were no longer pressed together at all, and Emma mourned the loss.  It had felt warm, nice even to be touched, light though it had been.  There had been so little of it since her family died. “We’ll probably have to keep our own house, even after this trek is over. Though perhaps in a few years we could hire someone to help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I only meant - that’s why I don’t know what to do.  But I’ll learn.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I should have told you more, before we married. And I don’t expect you to do all that.  I managed fine as a bachelor. I can do for us both.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then what would I contribute?” she asked, now looking at him and smiling so he would know she wasn’t aggrieved.  It was a new world to her but she’d seen enough to know that everyone had to have a use.  Nothing could exist for only beauty and perhaps it was a mercy Alice hadn’t realized that yet before her end came. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it would have made Jimmy into a man who did more than ruin his family.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you have many talents,” Henry said and Emma was grateful he spoke.  Not just for the confidence or kindness it showed, but for pulling her from the darker thoughts that had started to intrude.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can plan a party.  Embroider a handkerchief. Paint a landscape.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Could you sew a dress? I can probably get some calico or muslin when we go through Fort Kearney. I know you’ve only the one dress since - “ he paused and took her hand, hesitantly covering it with both of hers. She smiled at him, so he would know it was welcome, and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders with her other hand, shivering a little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can manage that.  And I can pay for it, too. My trunk with our sewing notions; I still have it. Mother hid some brooches among the buttons and I’m wearing the pearl necklace. We could sell them.  There’s a leontine watch chain too, but we had to sell the watch.”  Emma felt the drop pearl pendant warm against her chest and thought of the brooches carefully wrapped in bits of fabric.  The cabochon garnet in its decorative frame and the less valuable hand painted one, enamel and round, the size of a coat button. Her mother had painted it herself and kept it stowed away from the grit of their dusty travel, but Emma remembered seeing her sit with it that first night on the trail, turning it over in her hand and then bringing it to her cheek like a kiss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” he said, and his fingers moved to his mother’s ring, loose on her finger. He ran his thumb over it and Emma shivered again.  “You keep that. You should keep something of your family. To give to your own children someday.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand fell gently into her lap as he drew his hands back and Emma wondered if he, like her, was suddenly thinking about what it would mean for her to have children someday.  Was he regretting this arrangement? This marriage where he barely touched her?  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your mother’s ring - was there someone you planned to give it to?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I brought a few of her things, without much of a plan for their use.  Small things to remember her by.  And you, was there someone for you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought so, before we left.  But when our family fortunes turned, he did too. I’m not longing for him.”  She could feel him looking at her and it made her feel warm. Like she had admitted too much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good.  I mean, I wouldn’t want you to have more grief to bear than you already have.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither spoke as Silas Bullen began playing his fiddle from across the circle of wagons, a jaunty version of “Yankee Doodle” that Mrs. Brannan’s voice soon joined.  Emma could picture her parents listening to it - her father inviting her mother to dance, her mother complaining that a song with a Virginian like Washington in the lyrics would use the word ‘Yankee,’ but smiling and taking his hand anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not crying about you. About being married to you. When I cry.  I just miss them, that’s all,” Emma said, wishing she was still wearing her bonnet so Henry couldn’t see the tears springing to her eyes.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he said. “I understand.” And she believed that he did, passing her handkerchiefs all day when her tears fell and not mentioning the cause. This time, after pressing a handkerchief into her fist, he also put his arm around her, running his hand up and down her arm, making shushing noises like she had heard him use with the oxen when he unyoked them for the night. She could feel his heart beating against her back as he pulled her tighter against his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was nice talking this way.  Like he was a friend and could maybe be something more soon. Like they could get through this together. Emma knew how to tease and cajole and even dare boys into showing their affection.  She had received trifles such as a paint set or a bouquet of flowers someone’s servant had grown in a hothouse.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Henry was a man and none of his gifts were trifles, starting with the firm arm around her waist saving her from certain death and the blanket around her shoulders to keep out the cold now.  The ring on her finger that he had probably been saving for a woman he loved and admired rather than one he had to take care of like a tiresome beast of burden, even though he was too nice to say so.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mrs. Foster helped her again with breakfast, as if they planned it, all the while keeping up a cheerful chatter about her husband, Dr. Foster, and the medical practice they would be setting up in California. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You won’t be going to Oregon!” Emma said, surprised and disappointed.  She had hoped this new friend might be a neighbor of sorts, though she knew Oregon was large and their party was likely to split up several times as they passed through different territories.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We won’t head that way until after Soda Springs, that’s months away yet.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma found this a comfort and somewhat distressing - still months to go before they still had over a month to go.  She knew the journey would last about five months but it had been harder to keep track of time lately. Their days took on a rhythm: waking, cooking, gathering what useful foodstuffs they could on the trail.  Walking, riding, crying a bit less each day.  It seemed to stand still, go very quickly, and stretch on all at once but her legs felt stronger and her arms too, the tasks that seemed to drain her at first now coming more easily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Henry said he has bacon, shall I look for it to add to the spider? There’s enough to share.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes! Jedidiah would stop complaining so much about dried apple pie for our only sweet if I start his day off with bacon,” Mrs. Foster said, taking over the spider completely while Emma rummaged through the store of goods. “Where are you two settling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma produced the bacon and then paused, wondering as Mrs. Foster lifted the pancakes out and arranged the bacon. “I don’t know,” she said, and then after a brief moment of panic, laughed.  “I don’t know!” Mrs. Foster joined her laughter as Henry walked up with a bucket of water, smiling tentatively at their mutual delight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where exactly are we going?” Emma asked that evening when Henry finished with the nightly Psalm.  After he finished reading he’d put his arm around her while they talked. He still slept by the fire instead of in the wagon and Emma didn’t know how to tell him she wished he wouldn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Black Vermillion River is next.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean to homestead.  Where do you - do we - plan to be?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Dalles.  I thought you knew.” He furrowed his brow as he answered. “Is that where you wish to go?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter to me where we go, as long as it’s not back to Virginia.” She wanted to say something about how even though this trip had begun in tragedy that multiplied in staggering ways, she found comfort in his presence and in his kindness.  But she couldn’t think of how to phrase it, so instead she asked him why he decided to go west.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was in seminary.  Thought I’d be a preacher or maybe a chaplain.  But then -” he paused and Emma reached for his hand, trying to encourage him to keep speaking with touch she hoped would be welcome.  “A friend and I went swimming.  I dared him to, he didn’t want to .  Said he wasn’t a good swimmer but I goaded him into it. And he drowned.  I tried to save him but I couldn’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was an accident. Surely you believe God has forgiven you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took a breath and spoke evenly, though she would tell it was an effort.  She was well practiced in it.  “It was hard to believe then. It’s sometimes hard to believe now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You saved me.  I would surely have drowned had you not been there, had you not been so quick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God guided my hands.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you believe that to be true then believe you are forgiven, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s becoming easier to believe that,” he said, squeezing her shoulder and she relaxed into him.    </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sounds of Silas’s fiddle washed over the camp and she wished Henry would hold her like this in the bed of the wagon, instead of leaving her alone to go sleep by the fire.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She couldn’t do it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the crossing at the Kansas River when her family had been lost, looking at the muddy Black Vermillion had her hiding under her bonnet like a bird tucking its head under its wings to sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma remembered an arm grabbing her tightly around the waist as the current pulled at her skirts, the relief she felt when Henry deposited her on the shore.  She had been drenched and gasping, Mrs. Foster’s arm around her, as she watched the canvas of her family’s covered wagon float swiftly downstream.  It had tilted at wild angles before flipping over and then it was gone - under the water and around a bend. Dr. Foster and a few of the men had run downriver to see what - who - they could rescue, but Henry was still in the water where the wagon had first pitched to the side and floated away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had watched as Henry stood with a body in his arms. It was a man - her father? Jimmy? But the face was so covered in blood that she couldn’t make out who from this distance. When she saw it was Jimmy, she had been disappointed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hated that he had been the only body to bury.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The one she had least wanted to mourn was the only one with a gravesite.  It was unfair.  Henry had conducted a short service naming them all, and Samuel Diggs, the wagon master, had made crosses with all four names burned into the wood.  But it was only Jimmy’s body that had been buried. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she hated it.  She hated Jimmy for that last act of displacing her family from its rightful place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll take the ferry,” Henry said, gripping her hands and looking worried, bringing her back to the present and this new river to cross. “We won’t ford it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But even that couldn’t stop her panicked breaths and so eventually he consulted with Dr. Foster and then dosed her with whiskey, calling it medicinal.  She grimaced as it burned its way down her throat, then breathed deeply at the sensation of warmth spreading through her and the way she could feel her pearl drop necklace against her chest, her boots laced tightly around her ankles, her bonnet tied neatly under her chin.  All these pieces of clothing keeping her from flying apart and Henry there too, holding her around the waist like he had in the Kansas while pulling her to safety.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it was over, they rumbled along a bit more before nightfall, but the feeling of warmth did not subside.  Her brain felt like it was sloshing around inside her head and when Mrs. Foster brought her a dried apple pie, Emma thanked her without protesting that she hadn’t helped make it and called her Mary for the first time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll show you how tomorrow. On rest day,” Mary said as she handed over the pie. “Perhaps have another drink tonight, to calm those nerves.  You’ll sleep better for it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to serve you this for dinner,” Emma told Henry as she sliced the pie clumsily.  He had given her another drink and taken one himself after reading from his Bible.  He said he would have skipped it but it was his favorite one, Psalm 23.  They both cringed when he read ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>He leads me beside still waters’, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not relaxing again until he finished the verse with</span>
  <em>
    <span> ‘he refreshes my soul’. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We had apple trees at home,” Henry said.  “I remember climbing one far from the house and then eating about a dozen before they were really ripe and making myself sick.” He looked at her, smiling. “Maybe we can plant two or three in Dalles.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d like that.  We had an orchard at home. Alice and I would steal them from the kitchens, the ones that had been sliced for pies. When they were mixed with sugar and sweet and syrupy.  I remember how it ran down our fingers and made our chins sticky.” She laughed and bit into the pie they shared now, worried she was missing her mouth with part of the crust but also too warm and full to really care.  “Once, when Alice was telling Mother she definitely had not stolen the pie filling, a bee came right up to her chin! Mother said even the bee knew she was lying!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They laughed together and seeing him happy made Emma feel bold.  “Will you sleep here with me tonight? I think I would sleep better with you here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watched as Henry stopped smiling and stopped chewing.  He nodded solemnly, like they were taking their marriage vows anew.  “Yes, Emma, I’ll stay here with you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His answer felt as good as his calling her Emma.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turned his back as she undressed and she heard him securing the ends of the canvas cover so there was no longer an opening out the back.  With her whiskey-clumsy fingers she took twice as long with the buttons on her bodice and could not manage the corset at all. “Can you help undo these laces? I’ll sleep in my chemise, that’s on underneath.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Henry moved towards her and she could smell the whiskey on his breath.  His hands felt warm against her skin and her heart, which had been beating out a strange rhythm since she asked him to stay, was so loud she thought he might ask her about it.  His hands finished their work on her laces, delicately unthreaded the loops entirely and she worked at the ribbons of her skirt until finally the petticoat and skirt fell into a heap on the wooden bed of the wagon.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stood frozen, looking at each other, as Henry reached for the pearl drop necklace now visible as it lay just above the low neckline of her chemise. He lifted it and ran his thumb over the smooth surface before gently placing it back against her chest in the valley between her breasts. “Beautiful,” he said, and she wanted him to press his hand against her fully, so he would hear what that word did to the beat of her heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Henry turned away and didn’t come join her again until she was on the bedroll.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She made herself as small as possible so he would join her on the pile of blankets and quilts, but when he laid down she only felt his hand on her back.  She wondered if she should turn to face him, then stilled as his hand traveled up her back and to the bun that gathered her hair against the nape of her neck.  He gently reached for the pins and combs holding it in place and took them out, brushing his fingers through her loose hair lightly.  She closed her eyes like his fingers were singing a lullaby and slept with his hands still stroking her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning he handed her one of his shirts as she swallowed against the dryness in her mouth and winced at the fuzziness in her head that now seemed to have sharp edges. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Use this to sleep in.  At least until you can make a new dress.  It should be more comfortable than wearing the same thing day and night.” She looked at him, taking in his rumpled pants and mussed shirt.  He hadn’t even taken off his outer coat or boots, had laid beside her fully dressed.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He left their wagon abruptly and she ran her hands across the cotton, rubbed the collar between her thumb and forefinger and unfolded it to look at the long sleeves and how far down her legs the shirt would go. Then she hugged it to herself, wondering if he would sleep with her again.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Apparently bacon was such a common food staple on the trail, overlanders wrote of getting tired of it in their diaries. Can you imagine?! Tired of bacon!? </p><p>Burying people along the trail was common, so much so that the Oregon Trail has been called this country’s longest graveyard.  About one in ten emigrants did not survive the journey, the most common reasons being accidental shootings, drownings, and disease.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They didn’t travel on the Lord’s day but it was hardly idle.  Washing, hunting, drying the meat, ironing, baking.  Turning the fresh meat into jerky for when game wouldn’t be as plentiful to hunt or poor weather precluded it. Time to learn baking and cooking from Mary and to think over the night she and Henry had shared.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He slept with her that night and the nights after, always as still as a rock and probably as comfortable. The ease with which he took her hand or put an arm around her when they were sitting or walking was entirely gone.  But as uncomfortable as he seemed to be to share the bedroll with her, they were increasingly comfortable around each other during the day.  There were more grins from Henry and less of her tears, more that she could do to feel useful and less time he had to spend instructing her in the right way to start a fire or gather buffalo chips or find wild currants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The best meal Emma cooked on the trail turned out to be a disaster, but not in the ways she had gotten used to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just outside of Fort Kearney, she prepared the dried apple pie filling under Mary’s guidance.  The day was warm and Emma was hot over the cookfire, wishing she could dip a handkerchief in the nearby water bucket or roll up the sleeves of her dress like Henry always did with his shirtsleeves.  He was nearby tending to the oxen and Emma hoped he could smell how promising dinner was. She’d already coaxed some biscuits into being and the beans were bubbling in the dutch oven. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma navigated the fire and the spider and the dutch oven like she once had the pouring of sweet tea and slicing and serving of pound cake. Dinners at their nightly encampments were vastly different from those back home in Virginia, before they had to start selling off the fine china and pressed linen tablecloths and carved mahogany furniture to settle Jimmy’s debts.  But she was satisfied with the result of her hard work.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma had improved enough that Mary was sitting on a nearby rock rather than hovering over the fire with her, though not enough to finish as quickly as Mary in meal preparation. Mary always finished first but stayed with Emma to visit as she labored - less and less each day - over the results of her own meals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I’m still hopeless on the crust, but look how good this is turning out!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re quite good with the beans too. You’re a very quick learner.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma smiled at her friend and refrained from pointing out that success after several weeks of burned or undercooked meals didn’t mean the learning had been quick.  She had learned.  That was enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Henry finished with the oxen and came to join them, nodding to Mary and then to Emma.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That smells nice,” he said, and Emma felt a thrill of pride at the words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hope it will taste nice too.  Here, try a bit before I put the rest into the crust.” She scooped some of the mixture onto her stirring spoon and turned to offer it to Henry. He stepped closer, looking at her as he encircled her wrist with his hand and took the proffered bite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Delicious,” he said and Emma blushed, returning the spoon to the spider and stirring once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Emma! Your dress!” Mary was on her feet, but Henry was quicker, pulling Emma towards him and roughly spinning her around, stamping out the flames that were licking up the hem of her dress with his boots and then falling to his hands and knees to beat them out with his palms.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get down!” He yelled to her and she dropped down too. They rolled on the ground and then the fire was out, the smell of singed cotton heavy in the air. Emma was pinned against the dirt, Henry on top of her, his hands checking her for signs of burn and injury as their bodies pressed together, breathing heavily. When he brought his hand to her cheek she gasped at how brightly red they appeared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your hands! Henry, they’re burned!” He sat back on his heels and she scrambled out from under him, pulling his hands into her lap.  “Do they hurt?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shook his head no, but Emma thought his lack of speech a sign of pain he wouldn’t admit to feeling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mary fetched Dr. Foster and he examined Henry’s hands.  “No charring, just a superficial epidermal burn.  You’ll heal nicely though it’s likely to be swollen and painful for a while. No bandage for now either, just soak them in cold water as long as you can tolerate it tonight.” He administered two shots of whiskey and then helped Henry into the wagon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mary assured Emma she would finish up supper - the cleaning too - and to go see to Henry as best she could.  Emma’s hands trembled as she unbuttoned his shirt in the privacy of their wagon, trying to move quickly so he could submerge his hands in the water bucket Dr. Foster had placed inside.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry, Henry. I seem to be no end of trouble to you,” she said as she helped him out of one sleeve and then the other.  Her fingertips brushed against his shoulders as she pulled the shirt down and she worried over how warm his skin felt.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” she said, confused.  Surely he didn’t mean he liked that she had near death experiences with both fire and water in the span of a month. That he had given up his freedom and supplies and now even his safety to ensure hers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like when you say my name.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was so surprising to hear him say something so direct that she found she couldn’t respond. Forming only an “Oh” as he sat down next to the bucket and plunged his hands in, making a sigh that might have been one of relief or a wince. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Henry. Thank you for saving me again, “ she said, regaining her wits at the sound of his pain.  “For seeing to my welfare when I can’t seem to manage it on my own.” She sat down next to him and untied the laces of his boots, easing them off and then setting them at the edge of the wagon bed.  Mary had left two plates of supper for them, which she took and set down next to Henry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That could happen to anyone. Accidents happen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They do.  But not everyone has a husband to protect them like I do. I’m grateful for you, Henry.” She would have held his hand but it was burned.  Instead, she put a hand on his chest, right over his heart where she could feel the rapid beat of it. “Thank you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the waning daylight she could see his upper body in a way his rolled shirtsleeves had only hinted at.  He was strong, she knew, but now she could see it in the cut of his broad shoulders and the cords of muscle on his arms, the way her hand looked small placed in the center of his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The smell of burned cloth still hung in the air so Emma stood to attend to her own clothing, slipping off her boots and then turning her back to Henry as she undid her buttons and laces and layers.  The abundance of material had kept her skin protected, but her dress was hopeless and she knew Henry would have to buy enough material for two dresses now instead of only one.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She changed into the shirt he had given her to wear.  It hung almost to her knees and usually she wore it with her pantalettes but since the edges of those were blackened and reeked of smoke, she took them off as well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma walked back next to Henry, who seemed to be laboring to breathe, and sat down next to him. It was strange to be next to him in so little clothing, especially with daylight still on the horizon, but she pushed down that feeling and instead focused on the food.  “You should keep your hands in there; let me feed you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nodded his agreement so she scooped the first serving of beans on the fork and held it up to his mouth. After swallowing he thanked her and she shook her head.  “You really should stop thanking me, for anything. And now we’ll need even more fabric.  Can we manage?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can.  I saved for this trip and for any number of unforeseen outcomes.  Though of all the surprises I thought there would be…” He shrugged and grinned at her and she was so relieved she laughed.  “I thought I might get us a dairy cow too.  I didn’t think I could manage one alone but with you along, you might like to have milk for cheese and butter.  I read in the guidebook that you can hang milk under the wagon in covered buckets, and the motion of the chassis churns it.  Fresh butter every night.  Wouldn’t that be fine with the pancakes and biscuits you can make so well now?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma nodded.  “I could learn how to milk.  I’d like that.  I’d like knowing I’m helping you do something you couldn’t have managed alone.” She fed him another bite.  “What else do you hope to do when we reach Fort Kearney?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wrote my sister a letter,” he said.  “I’d like to post it. I wanted to tell her about you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma felt a thrill of something at that - worry? Excitement? “What did you say?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told her I was married, rather unexpectedly, but that my wife was everything she had hoped I would find.  A godly woman who is caring and kind, who is game for adventure and ready to start a new life.  And - “ He took another bite, biscuit this time, and took entirely too long to chew and swallow before he finished. “Who I care for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma felt a rush of affection at his words and something hotter too, bubbling up from her middle and spilling into her fingertips.  She noticed a crumb in the corner of his mouth and wiped at it with her thumb and then kept her hand on his face, cupping his cheek.  “Did you tell her I care for you too?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shook his head.  “I didn’t want to say what I wasn’t sure about.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do care.” When he wouldn’t look at her, she said his name.  “Henry.  I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes were on hers as he turned his head to kiss her palm and then her forehead before he winced and rearranged his hands in the bucket.  As she snuggled against his side, she thought how different it was to say those words now, and how right she had been to say them to begin with.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The milk being churned by the motion of the wagon is real and was just too cool to not use, even though it wasn’t pivotal in Henry finally kissing Emma.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They left Fort Kearney with ten yards of calico and ten yards of sheeting muslin, a dairy cow, new boots for Henry, and a dress that with only minor adjustments could be worn right away.  Emma didn’t like to think about what might have befallen the woman it originally belonged to.  She wasn’t the only one who had suffered hardship on the trail, but in many ways she was lucky.  Henry was able to replenish what stores were waning and to add the supplies that feeding another person required.  It became obvious at the trading outpost that others on the trail were selling off wares they had once treasured enough to take on a 2,000 mile trek, parlaying a cookstove or a piece of furniture into more flour or sugar or simply the promise of a lighter load and quicker travel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As they drew closer to the North Platte River, Emma and Mary gathered serviceberry and gooseberry and chokeberry, staining their fingers purple and their lips and tongues too. Dr. Foster had heard of outbreaks of cholera around this heavily traveled area and warned them all to boil water before using it, an untested preventative measure he was nevertheless certain would help.  That was a sweaty task, but the walks for berry gathering were a delight. They never ventured so far as to let the dust of the wagon train out of sight, but Emma could tell exactly when Henry spotted them returning from these excursions.  Even from afar she knew the tight set of his shoulders, the way he stood at the front of the wagon, looking for them.  The way his face broke into a grin at the sight of her and he jumped off the wagon in a fluid motion to coax the oxen with a “Come up, come up” as they plodded along.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They returned to camp with full stomachs and full baskets, enough that Dr. Foster declared them safe from scurvy and Mary spoke of making pies for everyone, even that horrible Silas Bullen who leered at everyone and hadn’t stopped complaining about leg cramps all day.  When Silas began playing on his fiddle and Henry and Emma lingered over their fire with the Fosters nearby, Henry wiped a thumb across Emma’s lips and then leaned in to kiss her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your lips are purple.” He spoke against her mouth, which made it feel less chaste than it started, the simple press of his lips against hers not unlike the one at their hurried wedding.  Emma could hear Mrs. Brannon singing along to the mournful tune Silas was playing and it felt like a song just for them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But meet me, meet me in the Ev'ning, </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>While the bloom is on the Rye. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But name the day, the wedding day, </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I will buy the ring.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her ring was still loose on her hand but it felt like hers now as she rested it on Henry’s shoulder and then gripped him tightly, urging him to kiss her again.  She could feel his breath on her lips and his thumb just under her chin and the nearness of him was intoxicating, like she’d been drinking wine instead of eating berries all afternoon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The moon shines bright and clear;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then pretty Jane, my dearest Jane,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah! never look so shy,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But meet me, meet me in the Ev'ning,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>While the bloom is on the Rye.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her mouth was open and she looked from his eyes to his mouth just as he formed the word “Emma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give her a flourish for me, young fella!” Silas shouted, his speech slurred by skullvarnish and the strings of his fiddle screeching to a halt.  Mrs. Brannan shouted him down and he started playing again, mercifully, as Henry pulled Emma by the hand to their wagon. Once inside, he dropped her hand and took a step away from her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don't you?” She asked, trying to make it sound like a joke. She was angry with Silas for ruining a moment where it seemed Henry was finally looking at her in the way she wanted and now his eyes were on the floor, like he’d never look at her again.  “If I'd have married him he would have done it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why,” Henry said, meeting her eyes and looking so solemn she thought of Jimmy’s name for him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Old Stone-Face</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “If we did that, if I did that to you...I would be no better than him.  And you deserve better than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn't be doing it to me.  We would be doing it together.” If she was still in Alexandria she would have stamped her foot, but of course if she was there none of this would be happening.  She was an expert in avoiding assignations not of interest and encouraging affection only when it wouldn’t ruin a reputation, but not how to convince her husband she wanted his touch. He swallowed and moved a bit closer, and she could see his face changing from stone to man once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to eat the fruit too early.  It would have made me sick. Both of us sick.” He cupped her cheek and she nestled into it eagerly, willing him to see her eagerness.  “I thought we could fall in love. I could love you. I didn’t want you to be obligated or grateful, I wanted you to love me too.  But if I took that - “ He trailed off, and Emma wasn’t surprised when the words he came back with were familiar ones from the Bible.  He used it to speak for him so often, especially when he had no words of his own. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She heard it for what it was, a promise to love her if she’d let him.  “I desire it, Henry.  I desire you.  I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then his mouth was finally against hers and his hands on her waist, untying her skirts and then working at her back to undo the buttons she had carefully redone on the unlucky woman’s dress. When his hands touched her skin, it felt like fire burning, a bright spot of heat where his palms moved to cup her breasts and then graze her sides, embers flaring down into her belly and outwards.  She had the wild thought that the flames he had put out on her ruined dress he was now putting back in, stoking a flame that she wasn’t sure how to quench.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She ran her hands under his shirt and then around to his back, pressing him closer against herself, delighting in the sharp exhale he made as their hips connected. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, the sound of a loud thud and Dr. Foster cursing, silence where there had been fiddle music, cries of alarm instead of the murmuring of weary travelers.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cholera!” Dr. Foster shouted as they adjusted their clothes and ducked back out of the wagon.  “I’m sure of it.  Damn fool didn’t boil his water, I’d wager.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Henry kissed her forehead and then left to help Dr. Foster move Silas’s prone body to the edge of camp.  Emma took several breaths before joining Mary to see what was to be done. She had never nursed, but then again she had never done a great many things.  </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Boiling water was not known to be a preventative measure for cholera but in 1850s London Dr. John Snow (really) isolated the cause of a cholera outbreak to a water pump, so I figure it is not too outlandish for Jed to have formed his own ideas a little bit earlier about cholera and its spread.</p><p>Overlanders did more often walk than ride, gathering berries and fuel for fires as they went.  Oxen were not driven by reins but rather voice commands and whips.</p><p>The Bloom is in the Rye was a popular song at the time wagon trains were moving west.<br/>“Give her a flourish for me, young fella!” is the best line out of the musical 1776, spoken by delegate Stephen Hopkins from Rhode Island to Thomas Jefferson as he announces he is going home to Virginia to see his wife. I can’t imagine Stephen and Henry are related, since Henry would never say anything remotely like that, even if we want him to.<br/>Skullvarnish was whiskey cut with molasses to make it last longer which sounds like just about the least appetizing thing I can imagine, and exactly what Bullen would drink.<br/>“Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires”  is a verse from Song of Solomon and I’m sure it made an impression on Henry because it’s in the book three times at least: 2:7; 3:5; 8:4.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Silas was dead by morning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They buried him deep in the earth, a kindness he wasn’t really owed, but Dr. Foster said it would prevent contamination.  The miasma of bodily fluids was so heavy the others were eager to see him underground.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mr. Diggs urged them forward, out of the bad humors in the air, so they pressed on.  Dr. Foster was more tense than usual and Mary more solicitous to his irritable moods than normal as he looked for signs of disease among the others, stalking among them on the trail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stopped their frenzied push when Chimney Rock was in sight, and then wasn’t, as a fierce rainstorm blew in across the prairie. The wind blew the rain sideways and lightning illuminated the towering rock as Henry rolled down the cotton canvas cover as far as it would go along the cantilevered ends of the wagon. Emma gathered the butter churn from the chassis, while Henry calmed the oxen as best he could, before they both climbed into the wagon completely soaked. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma’s dress and hair were clinging to her, heavy and freezing cold, her fingers shaking as she undid her buttons and the ties of her skirts.  She fumbled with fastenings and shook her hands to warm them up and then Henry was there, holding her hands and blowing on them, rubbing them briskly and then taking off her clothes so quickly that she knew he must think her in danger from the chill.  After he lifted the chemise over her head he left her for a moment to get a quilt and then wrapped her in it tightly.  He stripped in the same perfunctory way he had undressed her, no blushes of embarrassment or awkward hesitation, and Emma was strangely moved, turning warm from a place near her middle and unable to look away. His pants were caked in mud up to his knees, and the sleeves of his coat were worse, so he too ended up in only a blanket.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he was in front of her, lifting her hair out from under the quilt where it pressed against her bare skin, only one hand holding his blanket in place.  Emma could see his collarbone and the drops of rainwater still clinging to him there so she reached forward and wiped them away with the edge of the quilt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I should finish the new dress I’m sewing.  Mary helped me piece it together, I’m almost finished. With that one wet, I’ve nothing to wear.”  In the cool air Emma could see her breath as she spoke, hanging between them like the words she wanted to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Warm me.  Cover me.  Pull me to yourself and let me get lost in your touch.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>She made no move to gather her trunk of sewing notions and he didn’t either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pounding of the rain against the canvas cover was so deafening and so constant it made Emma feel like the inside of her head was buzzing. It was a frantic drumbeat that her heart raced to match, and she felt wild with the need to crush her body against his, to find safety and pleasure in the feel of his hands on her skin. She reached both hands towards his face and placed them behind his head, covering his mouth with her own as her quilt fell away and she stood naked before him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Emma! It’s too cold!” he said, readjusting his blanket so it now covered them both.  Her breasts pressed against his chest and her thighs were against his and she felt him shiver as she moved even closer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then warm me,” she said, and he had her on the wagon floor, the quilt underneath her and Henry above, smoothing her hair away from her face and kissing her lips, her neck, her collarbone. He stretched out his blanket over them both, cocooning them in the warmth of their own bodies as they learned where to touch and grasp and kiss. Their rhythm matched that of the pelting rain and Emma felt she might be consumed or burst like a flash of lightning.  Thunder rumbled so close that the very ground shook, but it was the way Henry was moving above her that made her throw her head back and gasp.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After this, the trail gets rougher. We won’t be in prairie land any more.  The rest of the way is mountainous, steep.” He curled a long strand of her hair around his finger and then kissed her ear, running his hands up and down her arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve seen so many wonders. The same God who carved Chimney Rock causes these terrifying wind and rains.”  She didn’t say </span>
  <em>
    <span>and the river currents that killed my family, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she could tell he understood in the way he stroked her hair and held her tight, her back against his front and her hands on his knees. She could feel the rough skin on his palms that had beat out a fire; evidence of Henry’s care and evidence of God’s neglect.  Or at least His indifference.  “Sometimes I’m not sure who God is. And sometimes I am sure who He is and it’s too much to bear.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Our unbelief or belief don’t make Him less real.  And I think He can see your pain and knows why you feel that way.  God is strong enough to handle our anger and our fear.  Our disbelief too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How can you believe so steadily?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hands paused in their exploration of her body.  “Sometimes I don’t.  But it’s been very easy to believe in the goodness of God since you became my wife.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma turned to kiss him and then they spoke in other ways, telling each other of their desires and needs with touches that words could not express, with sounds that were a primal language they both understood, but had never used before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she finally opened the trunk of sewing notions she searched for the lace trim that she hoped to add to make a collar.  Instead, she found baby booties.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She held them in reverent hands, thinking about how her mother must have placed them there and wondering if she did so in the hopes of a grandchild or in the desire to remember her own babies, now grown and often disappointments, but forever sweet in her remembrance of them as round-faced infants chewing on their feet and blowing bubbles out of their mouths.  Emma placed them back in the roll of trim, like a pleasurable secret.  She thought of the verse Henry quoted: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires</span>
  </em>
  <span> and decided not to speak of her own hopes, now that they had a chance of coming true. Time would tell. And God willing, she and Henry would have plenty of time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The storm was growing weaker, but rain still fell when Emma put the finishing touches on the dress and tried it on in front of Henry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful.  Though I would rather we stayed in just the blankets for a bit longer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma shucked it off and laid it carefully over a trunk, stepping back into his warm embrace, enjoying the feel of his hands running up and down her back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m in awe of you.  Every day you keep learning something new.  You bring a brightness to others, a joy even though you are still in a cloud of grief yourself.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It lessens each day,” she said. “Your love is filling the cracks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pressed his forehead to hers and then neither had words for a while.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The rating is earned in this chapter!</p><p>The miasma theory claimed that bad air caused illnesses including cholera.  It was somewhat helpful in controlling the spread as it placed an emphasis on cleaning pollutants and bad smells and diarrhea was the main issue with spreading cholera.  Germ theory didn’t take hold until the 1880s.</p><p>Middlemarch sent me this post: https://met-costume.tumblr.com/post/637761801384312832/bootees-metropolitan-museum-of-art-costume and suggested they might be baby booties in Emma’s possession for this story which I thought was a fantastic idea and was happy to include here.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rain delayed them several more times on the way to Fort Laramie and Emma used the time to finish another dress and chemise.  Mary had surreptitiously made her an apron and presented it wrapped in a carefully cleaned and empty canvas flour sack. In return, Emma kept her and Dr. Foster in butter for their nightly meals.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma had quite a collection of Henry’s handkerchiefs by now, and sewed his initials into the corner of each except for one which she embroidered with </span>
  <em>
    <span>EH</span>
  </em>
  <span>, feeling a thrill of pleasure at the look of the letters together.  When she gave them to Henry he traced the initials with a gentleness she knew from his hands on her skin and she shivered in pleasure, blushing at his look and then telling him why when they were alone in their wagon that night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The landmarks blurred together and the dates too, until one day just past Independence Rock Emma realized what day it was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s Alice’s birthday today.  She would have been eighteen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Henry reached for her hand as they kept pace with the wagon and squeezed.  “I’m sorry there weren’t mourning colors for your dresses.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You needn’t be. I can remember them without wearing black and my mother was a very practical woman.  She would understand. Though Alice,” she laughed, “Alice would not. She would call my bonnet insulting and my hem a disgrace and point out all the uneven stitches at the seams and my ragged fingernails.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad you can recall her fondly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think she would not like to be here. The change would have been too great.  Her biggest obsession was finding a suitor whose family china and silver patterns matched ours and making every man in Alexandria her beaux even if their china was disappointing. I like imagining her there still. Happy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Henry stayed silent and Emma was glad he hadn’t thought of a Bible verse to quote.  Alice would have hated that and Emma would have heard it through her ears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can imagine her easily enough, but I wonder what my parents would think of me now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If they could see what I see, I’m quite sure they’d be proud,” Henry said and then lifted her hand to kiss it. If the bonnet’s brim had been less wide he would have seen her blush, but she could tell by his smile that he knew she was pleased.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. Diggs assured them that overlanders had been drinking from Soda Springs for years and that as long as no one drank too much, it was harmless to try.  Emma tasted the bubbly water and it felt like champagne, not as sweet, but all the more satisfying for drinking it with the stunning landscape around her and Henry on one side, Mary the other.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Later, when the others were using their rest days to hunt or bake or repair wagon wheels, Henry led her by the hand to a tucked-away spring.  And as much as she missed her family, she was glad none were there to see her and Henry bathe together in the warm water, lingering as Henry sighed against her hands kneading at his shoulders and back and then Emma tilting her head back as Henry washed her hair with massaging fingers. Mary raised an eyebrow when they returned to camp much later but said nothing.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emma cried as they left Soda Springs, but not the hopeless, despairing tears she had cried when her family was lost. A goodbye to a friend stung, especially a farewell as permanent as this, but there were letters and the knowledge that Mary and Dr. Foster would have a good life in California. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry you’re again losing someone you care about,” Henry said as they turned west and the Fosters turned south. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be alright,” she said, using her handkerchief, the one he had given her but that she had made her own with her new initials.  Alice would have scoffed at the lack of lace but Emma knew the work that had gone into making </span>
  <em>
    <span>EH</span>
  </em>
  <span> and how important it was to be able to dry your own tears with something of your own making.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fort Boise, Snake River, The Blue Mountains, and then finally Oregon and the Dalles. Emma had started to think of it like an unreachable place and her like a wanderer in the desert, an Israelite in search of a promised land that despite being promised, seemed impossible.  But then, one day they were there and Henry smiled as he said “Welcome home, Mrs. Hopkins.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was several years before apple trees were available for sale, and then another eight before the grafted seedlings they planted bore fruit.  When the pink and white blooms gave way to the growing golden russets, Emma sat in the orchard reading a letter from Mary, looking up to watch the children play and Henry work in the far field, sleeves rolled up and a wide-brimmed hat on his head.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It might be a long time yet before the apples were ready for harvest, but she could wait.  She had all she needed.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>“If they could see what I see, I’m quite sure they’d be proud” is a version of what Henry says to Emma before they kiss in the “Southern Mercy” episode in season 2 of Mercy Street.</p><p>Even though Soda Springs sound entirely made up, it is entirely real. </p><p>Henderson Luelling is credited with bringing apple trees west over the Oregon Trail in 1847.  The trees had a worse success rate than people with approximately half of them dying.  Super interesting man who was considered too abolitionist for his fellow Quakers and ultimately got kicked out of the Salem Monthly Meeting of Friends for it.  </p><p>Mary’s letter absolutely has an account of Dr. Foster at odds with his new colleague, Dr. Hale. But that’s a different story and anyone reading this is welcome to write it!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did research but only included information that would help Henry and Emma in their romantic pursuit of each other, occasionally eschewing actual facts and realities to make the story more compelling.  For example, most travelers on the trail (called emigrants or overlanders) used tents or slept in the open by the campfire since their wagons were too loaded with supplies.  But I needed Henry and Emma to have some privacy or else he would never ever make a move and no one wants that story.  </p><p>Henry reads here from Psalm 5, a psalm of David.  Emma’s jewelry was of the type popular at the time; the leontine style was named after a famous actress and was made of a woven golden ribbon with a tassel on one end and a watch hook on the other.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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